


Just War

by ShaolinQueen



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Action, Angst, Case Fic, Drama, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaolinQueen/pseuds/ShaolinQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold Finch and John Reese have learnt, sometimes with luck, sometimes the hard way, that everything can happen, even under seemingly boring circumstances. And after The Machine escape this lesson will prove to be more precious than ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: Nothing is mine but my grammar mistakes.
> 
> A/N: Set after Season 2 finale. Just some musings on what could happen next, a bit of action, a pinch of humor and a lot of angst. I opted for the easy way, because I'm nowhere near as awesome as POI writers are. I hope you'll enjoy it all the same. Critique is much appreciated!
> 
> A/N 2: Sporadic references to my previous POI story What Does Tame Mean. No need to read that first, but if you do, I won't certainly mind ;)

It had been a couple of rough weeks. Even deciding to ignore the terrible ordeal involving persistent FBI agents, prisons, bomb vests, viruses, and rooftops and poisoning, what had come next could be considered equally taxing. To put it in a euphemistical way, that is.

Harold was painfully aware of how close he had come to nearly lose everything, once again. Just like it had happened a few years before, when an explosion had robbed him of his only and dearest friend, his first attempt to lead a normal life with the person he loved and the ability to run on a treadmill.

The latter he would have traded without a second thought, with the possibility to leisurely toast with Nathan again, or surprise Grace with another treasure hunt.

He couldn't have that though.

However, against all odds, he had managed to embrace another routine. A routine that involved people in danger and dangerous people, an abandoned Library, a dog and another friend.

It certainly wasn't what people called "conventional life", but considering the premises of his past, such as being the creator of the first, real, artificial intelligence who spied on everything and everyone, every hour of every day, he couldn't imagine a better life.

And yet, only three days before, his world had gone upside down again, and till the very last second before answering that call on the street he had thought it would have stayed that way. That his mission had been redacted, that he could no longer provide John with the purpose he needed.

But his Machine was still there, she was still communicating with them, spitting irrelevant numbers through payphones on the street.

John was still there.

He was there despite the recent discoveries about Ordos, despite Harold's 911 call and all his following attempts to lose him. In spite of all Harold's efforts to keep him away from Root and her madness, and away from the Government and their unscrupulousness, John had stayed, unfaltering.

He still couldn't believe that the ex-operative had planted a bug on his glasses, Harold might be the one describable as reclusive and misanthropic, but John's displays of consideration were  _unusual_ , to say the least.

Then again, he knew John Reese was anything but a common man. You don't become a CIA spy just because you can recite by heart "100+1 ways to kill a man and make the body disappear"  _and_  be able to actually put theory into practice.

He mentally grimaced at the thought, he had obviously made that title up, but he wasn't really sure such manual didn't actually exist.

Anyway, he knew John possessed also a brilliant and gentle mind, that's why he had been not only his first choice for an asset, but also his first contingency plan.

Too bad that mind could also be quite stubborn, hence John's refusal to leave the entire issue to Harold, once again unmindful of the danger he was literally chasing. Then trust Shaw to add unpredictable variables to an already complex equation.

Also, he still couldn't believe that his friend hadn't demanded an explanation straightaway after the mess was over, but simply walked with him, silently listening while Harold had apologized for something he couldn't have predicted, really, yet had changed the former soldier's life and almost got him killed, first with a bullet then with cheap whisky.

Sometimes it was just so easy to put the blame on everyone but ourselves, and Harold still felt partially responsible for what had happened to John in 2010, but apparently his friend was painfully aware of the fact that the greatest blame laid in his own decisions and his own decisions only, like keeping his mouth shut in an airport terminal, whispering those words a few seconds too late, quieter than they should have.

And Harold wished he could ease that burden from his friend's shoulders, make it disappear even, just like he had seen John attempt with Harold's personal one, after that particular trying day with Russian Roulettes and painful memories.

But at the same time he knew it wasn't possible. They had moved on though, they had gone back to the Library, back to their routine, with a wandering yet still functioning Machine, once again keeping themselves busy with new numbers and new cases.

"Good morning, Finch". John sauntered as usual in the corridor, greeting Bear with a scratch behind his ears and a treat.

Harold allowed the tiniest smile on his lips and watched his friend leave a box of pastries and a steaming cup of tea on the desk, just as his reach. Then he proceeded towards the board, studying the new picture hanging there while sipping his hot coffee.

"Good morning, Mr. Reese, new number". He unnecessarily stated, savoring the familiarity of the sentence along with a mouthful of donut.

The whole ritual tasted familiar and Harold couldn't help but rejoiced at the newly found schedule, promptly scattering on his monitor everything he had found on their new irrelevant.

"What do we know about him?" John demanded, attention to Harold's computer and a donut of his choice.

"James Stevenson, 55. Head of a research center called "AI - The next generation". He and his team are currently working on a new prototype they're being quite secretive about."

"Spying on the competition, Harold?" Quite used to John's ironic comments he absently reprimanded him and went on.

"Be serious, Mr. Reese. I couldn't find anything on this prototype; it could be a Robot or an innovative lawnmower, for what we know."

"I doubt an innovative lawnmower would rise violent, premeditate crimes, Finch". Of course he agreed with the ex-agent, but they had learnt, sometimes with luck, sometimes the hard way, that everything could happen, even under seemingly boring circumstances.

"Be that as it may, I couldn't get to hack into their system, so we need to plan a night incursion in Mr. Stevenson's office, to gather some more information on this mysterious project. I think it could be the key to this case."

Harold wasn't particularly happy about that arrangement, and even less when he saw a wry smile appearing on John's lips. The insufferable man didn't even bother to conceal those anymore.

"As you wish, Finch. Always glad to be part of your descent into deviant behavior". Recognizing the quote, from one of his own declarations nonetheless, Harold sent him a withering glare.

"Mr. Reese, I wish you'd spare your brilliant mnemonic capabilities the effort to remember such trifling details".

John looked quite amused; something very similar to a laugh escaped his mouth, eyes glinting with mischief.

"Send me Stevenson's home address, Harold. I'll keep an eye on him while you review your breaking and entering notes."

 

* * *

 

It was Sunday, and James Stevenson had spent great part of the day at home, reading a book. It was a worn copy of "Second Foundation" by Asimov. Stevenson had probably read it dozens of times and by 4 o'clock he had reached chapter 16, page 125. He had eaten pizza leftovers for lunch (pepperoni), had a mid-afternoon snack (Milky Way), and used the toilet five times.

Harold knew because John had made sure to inform him regarding every single detail.  _We can't overlook anything at this stage, Finch_.

Obviously the ex-operative had been  _and_  still was bored out of his mind.

At the library Harold hadn't managed to find out much more about the man: no wife, no kids. Valedictorian, top of the class, degree with honors, Major in Electronics Engineering… Stevenson certainly appeared to be very smart, but nothing more.

And he wished he could blame John and his continuous interruptions for the scarcity of information, but frankly, Harold had suspected since early that morning that they could find useful data only in his working station at the office.

"Finch, you there?" And there he was again.

"Yes, Mr. Reese, as I was 2 minutes ago." Harold sighed in exasperation, preparing himself for another futile piece of information.

"I've called Fusco, he's gonna keep an eye on Stevenson during our little trip."

"Mr. Reese, it's not even dark yet, surely you know better than me that we should act concealed by darkness." Harold didn't really mind moving already, he just needed to taste some bits of revenge.

"Harold, it's Sunday."

"I'm aware of that, Mr. Reese."

"We don't need darkness to enter an office on a non-working day. Besides, the man has spent the entire day reading, barely moving. I'm sure even you would have done something else by now."

Harold was glad to notice that John was starting to sound properly exasperated, but he deliberately decided to prolong his payback just a little longer.

"I can't really know, Mr. Reese, I've never spent an entire day reading. Never had the time."

"Well,  _I_  know, because you now enjoy much more exciting activities. No one has been to the office today and that facility, by the way, is in the middle of nowhere."

"Yes, I've checked the location myself, it's quite isolated."

"Well?"

Satisfied with John's level of irritation, Harold decided he had made his partner suffer enough. "I'll meet you a block away from Stevenson's house in a half an hour, then we'll head there."

"Good."

John did sound quite triumphant, so Harold felt the need to clarify his point.

"And, Mr. Reese? I really appreciate the effort to bring logic to your cause, nevertheless next time you can simply tell me that you're bored."

 

* * *

 

"AI - The next generation" facility wasn't as big as Harold had expected. They hacked into the alarm system without problems and found Stevenson's office almost immediately. They couldn't see any physical prototype, so Harold assumed the project was still at an embryonic stage.

He went straight to Stevenson's desk then, curious and thrilled at the same time to deal with a system he hadn't been able to crack from the Library.

John kept looking around. He had secured the perimeter before letting Harold in and now was slowly wandering around the place, looking for any useful sign that could help them understand where the threat would stem from.

He was silently working when something got his partner attention. Harold sensed his change of pace and briefly watched him grasp a leaflet, which had been lying on a parcel just behind the monitor he was working on.

"Looks like our number is a member of a radical religious group", John stated while perusing the brochure. "I've seen more copies of this in Stevenson's apartment."

"Uncanny." He mused, "I would have expected better religious judgment from a man who has spent the entire day reading Asimov."

"What do you know, Finch, you geniuses can be quite eccentric. Are you a member of a cult I should know about?"

"I'm afraid, Mr. Reese, I've never had time for religion either. You're quite aware I've spent great part of my life working with computers. That's why" he was glad to announce, "I've just managed to enter Mr. Stevenson's secret account."

"Never doubted you, Harold. Found something interesting?"

Fingers working swiftly, Harold started going through all the data appearing in front of him.

"It seems you weren't entirely wrong about spying on the competition. Stevenson is working on a sort of artificial intelligence, capable to detect criminal intent. The project seems more focused on home invasions, bank robberies, certain-"

"What's this sound?"

Harold forgot his musings on Stevenson's project, every ounce of attention immediately to John and his urgent tone.

"What sound?"

He did hear something then: a low, acute beep, barely perceptible. Harold sat up and looked around, trying to identify the source of the sound. After a few seconds his gaze lingered on the parcel in front of him and it seemed that his partner got the same impression, because simultaneously John grabbed the small package and brought it to his hear.

He froze and Harold saw realization suddenly drawn into his face, eyes wide and shocked. They exchanged a look before the taller man threw the parcel as far as he could, and then launched himself behind the desk.

The impact took his breath away and Harold found himself on the floor. Then it came the deafening explosion.

 

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

Harold realized he was squeezing his eyes and panicking. His ears were buzzing, his hip hurt and he was dizzy. It took him a couple of minutes to regain his bearings, heartbeat slowing down and pain just above the daily level he had been forced to endure three years from then.

He cautiously opened his eyes, putting himself in a sitting position with no little difficulty. There were no flames, no smoke but the dizziness peaked.

John was lying on the floor. He was just besides him. His eyes were closed, his suit was covered in grime and he wasn't moving.

Harold panicked again. They were surrounded by debris, he himself was all dirty and John wasn't moving and was that a piece of metal?

There was a piece of metal near John's face - who still wasn't moving - and Harold reacted without thinking: he grabbed the object, successfully eliminating the danger and successfully scorching his right hand.

He hissed in pain, and then the ceiling started spraying water on them. Obviously there had been smoke, in the other room - where John had thrown the exploding device, which had triggered the facility fire sprinklers.

"John!" Even muffled by falling water Harold's exclamation sounded a bit too loud and enthusiastic, but he really didn't mind at the moment.

John had opened his eyes and was now sitting up in auto-pilot, while keeping water away from his face. He looked as dizzy as Harold felt but more or less in one piece.

"Harold, I'm right here." He noticed a slight note of grumpiness in his friend's voice, and then Harold almost fidgeted under the following scrutiny.

"Are you okay?"

And of course the man who had just regained consciousness was the one asking if  _Harold_  was okay.

"I'm fine, Mr. Reese. I already took a shower this morning but I guess we're never too clean."

He surprised himself with his attempt of humor, which denoted a detachment and a composure Harold wasn't feeling at all. He also gained a dirty look from the ex-operative, who didn't look particularly inclined to joke, at the moment.

"If you say so, Finch." Harold watched his friend straighten up a little stiffly, but accepted John's help to get up from the floor. He felt really stiff himself and being soaking wet certainly didn't help. Plus, his hand was throbbing mercilessly.

John left his side without a word to explore the ruined place. Harold didn't really know what to do, considering their location it was quite unlikely that someone had heard the explosion, but surely they couldn't linger too long.

Water finally stopped and John was back. Harold noticed for the first time there was blood on his white shirt. He opened his mouth to say something but his friend anticipated him.

"I know, Finch. I'll take care of it in a moment. What happened to your hand?"

Only then he noticed he had cradled it on his abdomen, in the weak attempt not to jostle it too much. It had been quite foolish of him to grab that piece of metal; he could have used a handkerchief or come up with any other sensible solution, he mentally chastised himself.

And Harold had disarmed a bomb vest with all the composure of the world; yet still found himself panicking because of explosions. He also remembered the feeling of utter helplessness in front of that stroll, then his rambling speech to John, back at the Library, when he couldn't find any connection between the four numbers the Machine had spit out that day.

It had happened almost two years before, and that night had seemed endless.

He averted his eyes from John's intent gaze before replying. "Nothing, Mr. Reese, it's just a burn."

"Mh."

Harold thought the uncharacteristic mumble that had escaped his friend's lips meant that the ex-agent didn't believe he was telling him the truth, but when he looked at John again he saw him moving his suit jacket aside, revealing a two inches metal fragment embedded into his side.

Shocked, he called out his friend's first name louder than he intended for the second time.

"John! When were you supposed to take care of that?!" Harold watched with wide eyes as the ex-CIA probed the piece, fingertips already covered in blood and a slight wince marring his features.

"Harold, calm down, it doesn't even hurt. See if you can find a pair of scissors and some adhesive tape in the desk drawer."

He stopped midway from reaching his friend, doing as he was told. He supposed that hadn't they been drenched, John could have just torn his garments, but there was no way he would try that now without further injuring himself.

His friend did show some self-preservation, now and again, Harold was glad to recognize.

Fortunately they were in an office, or what was left of it, so he found the objects of his hunt almost immediately, among dust, debris and scattered sheets.

John had settled on a small couch and taken his jacket off. When Harold approached him the operative was doing the same with his shirt, revealing an undershirt as soaked and bloodstained as the item he had just discarded. He accepted the scissors from Harold then started to cut just below the fragment of metal.

After making sure the undershirt friction wouldn't pull the fragment out of his abdomen in a very unpleasant way he took off that as well.

John's entire torso, Harold noticed, was covered in cuts and small wounds. They didn't look too serious and he was sure the younger man would ignore them without a second thought. Maybe he could coax him into cleaning them when they were back, safe and sound, at the Library.

The two inches metal was a completely different matter though, because it needed immediate treatment.

"John, I'd feel much calmer if I was the one performing this operation."

The taller man regarded him for a moment, then started to cut a large square out of his undershirt.

"I don't think it's a good idea, your hand looks pretty roughed up. Mind telling me how that happened, Finch?"

Along with the enquiry he received also a pointed look. Harold had wrongly assumed that the current situation would have averted any attention from his foolish action, but once again he had underestimated his partner nosy tendencies.

"Actually, I do mind, Mr. Reese."

The same partner sent him an amused look, lifting an eyebrow as to solicit a real answer.

"I grabbed a piece of metal, which happened to be white-hot." He explained as logically as he could.

John glanced at him for a moment, looking mildly interested in their conversation. Harold suspected the former soldier was simply trying to keep himself busy with something else beside the delicate task he was about to perform.

He had arranged a makeshift pad with his undershirt and now looked ready to extract the fragment. His fingers were slick with blood, but his grip was firm and steady.

"And why on earth would you do that, Harold?"

"Because,  _John_ ," Harold nothing but blurted out, "that piece of metal was lying mere centimeters from your left eye!"

The ex-soldier had already started to pull the fragment. At his declaration, Harold noticed a slight jerk of John's hand and an incredulous look crossing his face, followed then by a grunt of pain.

"Mr. Reese, are you okay?!" John had visibly paled, but had promptly covered the hole in his side with the makeshift pad. Blood was now freely oozing from the wound and the pad became quickly red-soaked.

Instinctively Harold found himself gazing at the incriminated piece of metal, which was now manifesting itself in its 5 inches entirety, but was abruptly distracted by John's grumbling.

"Damn, Harold, next time warn a guy, would you?" The ex-operative sounded genuinely astonished, his raspy voice lacking the usual poise. "I might think you're eccentric but I still have a high opinion of you. You can't go and shatter one of the few certainties I've left in life just as I'm extracting metal from my body!"

It took Harold a moment to fully digest the implications of the sentence. Then he couldn't control the suddenly surge of embarrassment and irritation.

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Reese, but I do act without thinking now and then!"

It wasn't really true, Harold couldn't remember the last time had done something without wholly thinking it through - well, except ten minutes before - but he kept going all the same.

"I must admit that grabbing a white-hot piece of metal with bare hands hasn't been my brightest idea, but should I remind you that the same piece of metal was dangerously lying mere centimeters from your left eye?"

"You certainly can,  _Mr._ _Finch_ , but mere centimeters still remain the operative words of the sentence."

The former CIA had arranged another pad and covered the first one, mouth still curved in disappointment. The bleeding was slowing down though and Harold felt a bit calmer in spite of everything.

"As I told you before, it's just a burn. In fact you could have just as well let me do that "extraction". Maybe you wouldn't have sputtered profanities  _and_  absurdities afterwards."

Reese seemed mildly pacified himself and Harold mentally sighed. The former agent never ceased to puzzle him. He would shield him from an explosion like it was the most natural thing in the world, collecting pieces of metal through his body along the way, then display absurd and out of proportion reactions at the tiniest hint of consideration. Well, foolish hints of consideration, in this case.

Also, Harold hadn't forgotten that John had come to even point a gun at him for the exact same reason. His consideration hadn't been foolish at all though, back in that rooftop.

"I'm sorry, Harold, you know I've done this plenty of times though" was the reply he received after a brief pause. "The fact that these days I let you do it for me means only that I'm getting too comfortable. This was regular agenda during my time at the Agency."

And of course good old CIA times should be brought up. Harold almost,  _almost_ , rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"I thought we were past beyond that period, Mr. Reese. Also, I've always assumed you didn't wake up in the morning taking a while to identify unexpectedly pleasant feelings, back then."

John wasn't the only one with brilliant mnemonic capabilities and Harold was particularly proud of his retort. That's why his exasperation rose beyond mild point at Reese's following amused tone.

"Harold, I can assure you that taking care of my own wounds, once in a while, won't undermine the evident improvement of my working conditions."

He watched his friend probe the bandage he had managed to fix into place during their ongoing banter, mouth curving in a slight grimace but overall satisfied with his work.

However, relief didn't stop Harold from irritably counter back.

"Yet I'm sure the general improvement of your working condition is based also on little details like that."

His friend regarded him with a small smile then, carefully slipping into shirt and jacket again. They were bloody and dirty, not to mention dripping, but they didn't have many fashion alternatives at the moment.

"Harold, if I'm conscious enough to do it, I don't mind, really. It just seemed the most reasonable solution to me."

John looked almost apologetic then, his tone was back to the usual soft and reassuring modulation. Harold couldn't really argue with that and was about to let John win, just this time, when the ex-operative continued.

"Unless you're implying you'd wanted me to ignore that there was metal in my body and jump back into action. But, I must warn you, it could have led to unpredictable shifts of the fragment, aggravation of muscular damage and severe internal bleeding. It wouldn't have been the first time, but that would have most certainly made a dent on my recently improved working conditions."

Finch glared at John and the sardonic grin he was wearing with an incredulous expression, speechless for a second.

"Your sense of humor never ceases to appall me, Mr. Reese."

John's grin broadened. He didn't even try to hide how much he had enjoyed pushing Harold's buttons.

Then his expression softened and Harold observed him cutting another bandage from his undershirt, now torn into pieces.

"Give me another minute, Harold, then I'll see to your hand."

 

* * *

 

"What the hell happened here?"

"Don't know, don't care. Make sure to eliminate any threat; the mission still stands. Bring me that damn prototype or no one of you is leaving this facility alive."

 

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

 

"We've got company."

John wasn't particularly happy at the moment. What should have been one of their usual incursions had suddenly gone unexpectedly downhill. He knew they had to face "downhill" all the time, but he had thought unexpected package-bombs would have sufficed for a day.

Fortunately he had succeeded in protecting Harold from the brunt of the explosion, although his friend had managed to end up injured all the same deciding to act without logic for the first time since they had known each other.

The news had surprised him in the middle of a delicate extraction, making it more painful than it should have been. But of course he hadn't "sputtered profanities and absurdities" because of the pain. After the initial shock, though, John had felt the need to lighten the mood.

And maybe light wasn't exactly the right way to put it, but well, Harold was used to his wicked sense of humor, even if he had just asserted the opposite.

He glanced at him for a moment and he was pleased to notice his friend looked a bit more relaxed. John was quite aware of his difficulties to cope with explosions, and was glad he had managed to distract the billionaire a bit.

However his current priority was to deal with the newly arrived guests. They could be the ones responsible for planting the bomb or mere bystanders - the latter quite improbable but either way, he had to eliminate any source of threat and keep Harold away from troubles.

"Stay here and don't move."

John couldn't waste time on formalities and his friend seemed not to heed etiquette for once, because he simply nodded without proffering a word.

He wielded his gun, which had stayed secured in his back holster all the time and cautiously exited Stevenson's office.

John had 15 rounds and he was going to use them very wisely, there was no chance he was going to lose the routine they'd re-acquired only three days before.

It had been hard to hear that Harold Finch was the one behind what had happened in Ordos, it had been hard to see Jessica's picture show up in a collection of irrelevant faces, because that wound never stopped hurting.

It had been hard to trust Harold almost unconditionally, dodging his plans to keep John away along the way.

But in the end it had been just those exact plans that had persuaded John to chase Harold no matter what.

Because the more the billionaire tried to keep him away the more he knew his friend was simply trying to protect him.

But as much as John could appreciate the gesture, and frankly, quite unused to such consideration, he wouldn't allow his friend to face such extreme situation all alone. Or with the sole company of a ruthless hacker who had basically kidnapped him for the second time.

And for once his trust had been rewarded, because after any kind of betrayal he had suffered at the hand of the Government and other people he had considered friends, this time who called friend nowadays hadn't betrayed him and had also apologized, for something John couldn't really blame him for.

It would have been easy, to blame someone else, but the truth was that John himself was the one who had thrown away the chance to live a happy life with Jessica and he was painfully and constantly aware of that.

Hence there was no reason to accuse a person who, since their very first meeting, had never caused him to feel anything but deep gratitude towards him.

Mind wandering, his senses were on the contrary highly focused on the current recon. The corridor was clear when John suddenly caught a glimpse of metal. He had a clear shot and as soon as the figure emerged from the corner it was falling on the ground, kneecap shattering with a sickening crack.

14.

The opponent, though, was more resilient than the average and, gun still in hand, fired back. Not surprised at all John took cover, then fired two more shots that kept the man down permanently. 12.

Their exchange drew the attention of two more gunmen who started firing at him at the same time. John left his cover just for a second, shooting towards them and then finding shelter behind a pillar. 9.

Heart racing he let adrenaline set the pace, never doubting the result, he was sure he had hit one of them. 8.

Those weren't common criminals, he mused getting close, they were skilled, properly armed and John suspected also properly trained. CIA maybe ISA, he assessed.

Other two shots and the second man was down. 6.

He decided to save some rounds just in case, surprising the third opponent from behind in a hand-to hand combat. Oh yes, the man was well trained indeed. Considering their location, ISA was an educated conclusion, and containing their attack was becoming even more urgent.

His opponent wasn't as tall as John but quite sturdy and he blocked John's first punch with his forearm, striking back viciously and still holding his gun.

Avoiding the hit by millimeters John seized the momentum to twist the man's wrist. The weapon fell on the floor and John kicked it away.

They struggled for a moment then something got John's attention. The distraction cost him a wild kick that brought him on one knee, but he didn't mind. He back-handed his opponent with the butt of his gun, successfully dazing him, then rolled on his side firing two shots against the man who was just trying to enter Stevenson's office. 4.

John had just the time to jump back from the floor when opponent #3 tackled him again, heavily crashing him on the wall. He grunted in pain then kneed the man on the stomach, managing to gain some ground.

They ended up grappling again then John suddenly found himself pushed back with unexpected force, falling down under the incredulous look of his rival.

High on adrenaline he didn't hesitate a second and even before hitting the ground John fired two more shots against opponent #4, who apparently hadn't give up just yet and decided to shot at him. 2.

Then blood splattered into his face and pain exploded in his neck. John reciprocated opponent #3 attempt to shoot him in the head with an actual head shot. 1.

Hand to his throat he watched in panic as opponent #4, now a bloody mess, was obstinately limping again towards the office.  _Towards Harold_.

John took a moment to take aim then planted his last bullet on his nape.

0.

 

* * *

 

He laid there, right hand covering his throat and the left over his abdomen. He could feel wetness under his touch, blood and water. He didn't know how much of each, but John was sure he looked like hell.

He was feeling peaceful though, the facility was finally quiet again, no sudden explosions, no annoying sprinklers, no gunshots from supposedly ISA agents. John decided he could rest for a moment, enjoy the calm just for a couple of minutes, then he would join Harold in the other room and they would leave that place and hopefully never visit it again.

He had almost closed his eyes when he heard uneven footsteps approaching. John could recognize that pace everywhere. Apparently Harold was coming to him and actually he was quite glad because he felt like resting a little more.

The footsteps quickened, then stopped abruptly followed by a gasp. "John…"

Yes, he definitely looked like hell. Over the months John had managed to catalog almost every Finch-reaction, and as he recalled each one of them he finally reached "quiet exclamation, barely whispered with a knot on the throat", which meant that Harold had long upstaged the medium level of worry and was currently on the verge of panic.

John winced in sorrow, after all his efforts to give his friend a semblance of calmness, he had gotten Harold upset again. He opened his eyes then, finding Harold's fixed on him, wide open. His friend looked impossibly desperate, so he tried to reassure him, that everything was going to be fine, that he had eliminated all the threats.

John ended up coughing instead. It was a light cough, but in a second pain exploded into his entire upper body, from neck to waist.

Suddenly every ounce of peacefulness abandoned his body, and John hadn't even the time to mourn its absence because he was drowning into agony, and in the back of his mind he knew, he painfully knew, that the peace he had been feeling was fictitious, that it wouldn't have lasted, just couldn't, because he had been shot. Twice.

He tasted blood in his mouth, a coppery, familiar flavor that made him almost gag.

He coughed again, uncontrollably shaking as more blood rose to his mouth. His breathing was labored and his heartbeat was racing. He needed to calm down, his airways were still more or less free and Harold was there.

It wasn't over.

And rationalize he could do, but each involuntary jerk sent agonizing spasm to his chest, pain radiating through ribs and abdomen. He suspected the bullet in his belly had done more damage than he had first thought.

Suddenly he felt very cold, for the first time seriously disturbed by the fact he was soaking wet.

He visibly shuddered and again he couldn't stop the grimace at the horrible pain even the tiniest movement elicited.

"John." Harold called him softly, then he felt a warm hand on his forehead, the gesture so intimate and reassuring he almost sighed, feeling a drop of that peacefulness again. And he was sure that now the sensation was real, just like the tissue lightly wiping his lips and chin.

"John," Harold's tone was more urgent now and it forced him to open his eyes again. "Help is on the way, I've taken care of everything."

And had it been another person uttering those words John would have simply dismissed them as "standard lines you're supposed to deliver to the bleeding guy on the floor".

But it wasn't and he actually believed at each one of them. Because it was Finch, because one of John's certainties, one of those still standing, was that he could count on his friend, always, even when the same friend had acted irrationally just a few minutes before.

The reclusive had probably rallied half of his medical staff, hired a private ambulance or something like that. And John wished he could make up a joke about it, just anything but that eerie silence and the overwhelming pain.

Only he couldn't speak, because that's what happens when manage to get a hole in your throat, and every attempt becomes a cough with more blood and nausea and he just couldn't be sick right then.

Finch didn't turn away from him for a second, hastily removing his jacket and waistcoat. And John simply reciprocated the gaze, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, even if the effort was multiplying by the second.

He just couldn't give up, and Harold looked oddly underdressed without jacket and vest.

However, the computer genius was also doing his best to make him pass out because pain reached an excruciating new level as Harold lift the hand that was laying on his abdomen, put his folded vest over it, then pushed it down again.

John heard himself utter a groan, and he wished he hadn't, because Harold looked contrite and even apologized. Again.

His friend was a blur now and the apology sounded very far away. He found himself covered with Harold's jacket and he welcomed the warmth, although meager.

But his body was starting to feel really numb and it was still very cold, and he just knew he was in severe shock and whatever Harold had arranged should really act soon because…

"Sorry."

John mouthed the word glancing at Harold for a last time before he let his body succumb to darkness.

 

* * *

 

Joss entered the facility with her gun out, wary and significantly worried. Finch had sent her a hurried, unusually lacking punctuation text. And of course she had rushed to the specified address, because a neglectful Finch could only mean big troubles.

And predictably the sight that welcomed her didn't do anything but worsen her level of apprehension: puddles of water, debris everywhere and four bodies on the floor… Five.

John was lying there awfully still, among strangers' bodies, and Finch was over him, frantically typing on his phone.

"Finch-"

Her sentence was cut by the roar of what could only be a helicopter. Joss turned around in surprise, actually seeing the vehicle landing on the huge garden surrounding the facility.

She then watched Finch jerk upright, finally acknowledging her presence. He still was too busy though, beckoning the medical staff that was now crossing the entrance.

Carter jogged towards him, a thousand questions crowding her mind. But Finch anticipated her.

"I'm sorry, Detective, I'll explain what I can as soon as possible, but as you can see, this matter requires my primary attention." The ever mysterious man briefly gestured towards his partner, a pained expression on his face.

She glanced at John again then, the close sight even scarier: skin ashen and clammy and blood all over his mouth and neck. She couldn't see the rest of his body but there was a horribly large pool of blood just where he had been lying a few seconds before.

The medical staff, extraordinarily efficient, had already secured a collar around John's neck and put him on a rigid gurney.

They started to move then, Finch following close. Joss stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Keep me updated."

Finch nodded briefly, then hastily caught up with the rescue team without looking back.

Everything was silent again and Joss felt almost drained. Two of the men lying on the floor looked very dead, the other two could be still alive.

She checked them for a pulse, finding a threadlike one on both, but cuffed them all the same, recalling Finch's erratic text about how dangerous those men would have been.

Still a bit shaken, Joss started her police work in autopilot. She called for Forensics and started collecting evidence, hoping to receive some news from the usual unknown ID soon, and hoping it would be good.

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

They reached his private clinic in 12 minutes. John had stopped breathing during the brief flight, and the rescue team had been forced to intubate him despite the C-spine and the bullet dangerously embedded in his throat.

Now he was laying on the emergency room bed, uncharacteristically still among the frantic staff around him. Harold absently noticed his blood soaked waistcoat, lying on the floor together with the rest of John's clothes.

The possibility of spinal damage was still ominously present. They still couldn't tell without a proper X-ray but the simple thought horrified Harold to no end. He refused to face it before due time, clinging to every single rational thought he could muster on the matter.

Then there was blood loss. Everybody, included himself, was covered in blood. John's blood. And they kept talking about internal bleeding as well, because of punctured organs, somewhere in the middle of the former CIA's abdomen.

They still had to evaluate internal damage as well, and he wasn't able to hear every exchange and he certainly couldn't ask questions then, in the middle of diagnosis and clinical stabilization.

Not many answers then, but he only knew that suddenly they had to revive John because his heart had stopped. Harold felt like fainting, suddenly overwhelmed by the events of day, from the explosion to the gunshots and the terrible silence that had followed the chaos.

He watched his friend jerk on the bed and a nurse appeared from nowhere then, dragging him away from the gruesome scene in front of his eyes. Harold objected weakly but John's heart was beating again and they were now moving him to the OR, so he let the woman lead him to another, pristine room.

"We need to properly bandage this hand." She told him calmly. And Harold had completely forgotten about that, even if in the back of his mind he could still feel it painfully throb.

He vaguely nodded and she made him lie down in a bed, not essential to treat his hand but quite so to control the shock he was still experiencing.

She then approached him with a burn kit. Methodically, she grabbed a pair scissors and suddenly Harold was besieged by the absurd and utterly irrational demand that he didn't want his bandage cut.

He froze, staring at his hand. He felt like he was about to lose something invaluably important, it was John's torn undershirt, John had put it there, meticulous and gentle, while reproaching him softly about his carelessness.

Harold realized that he hadn't any other connection with his partner at that moment; no ear-bud, no cell phones or GPS, anything but that tattered shred of clothe. And yet he didn't utter a word, let alone demand something.

He watched with impassiveness as the nurse cut John's makeshift bandage with practical ease, discarding the clothe in the trash bin.

Harold kept his eyes fixed on that trash bin during the entire treatment, thinking that he had to borrow one of John's suits again, unable to deprive Bear of the small measures of comfort he was forced to deny himself.

 

* * *

 

Quite aware that the surgery wasn't going take ten minutes, Harold left the clinic after instructing the staff to call him if anything happened. Not that he hadn't already done it months before, when he had literally created the facility from scratch - John poisoning being the last straw - hiring the best medical staff after examining each résumé personally.

Hence they perfectly knew how to reach him and that under circumstances such those currently ongoing they could at every hour of every day.

Meagerly reassured by the thought he headed for the safe house just around the block where the clinic was located. His clothes were still damp and he needed a shower, but most importantly he needed to shed some light on what had just happened.

And  _some light_  didn't cover even half of what Harold was going to investigate. He wanted to unveil every single detail and find every single man responsible for their current plight. Then destroy them in any possible way.

"Detective." He answered without faltering in his uneven yet hasty pace.

" _Hey! Did you and Wonderboy simply decide I could babysit all night? That man had done nothing but read all day!_ "

"I'm sorry, Detective. Something has come up." He knew Fusco wasn't really mad, Harold knew the detective was just as grumpy and bored as John had been early that day.

It felt ages ago.

" _Yeah, yeah, whatever. Where's our mutual friend, by the way? He assured me he'd come back in a couple of hours and now he doesn't even answer the phone._ "

Harold paused for a moment, literally stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

" _Is he okay?_ " Fusco sounded worried now and Harold knew he cared, despite the turbulent beginning, despite John's menaces and particularly eerie tone he used exclusively for his pet detective.

"No, Detective. I'm afraid he's not." There was no point in being secretive about it, Fusco was going to hear something from Carter in a few hours anyway. "But I really need you to keep watch on Mr. Stevenson, because he could be in more danger than we previously anticipated."

" _All right. And keep me update, will you?_ " Fusco didn't seem entirely sure on wanting to hear any news soon, and Harold could relate. He just hoped they would overcome everything, once more.

"I will." He ended the call, looking around warily before entering the brownstone in front of him.

Glancing longingly at the clean suit in his wardrobe, Harold couldn't allow himself the bliss of a hot shower just yet. He had two more phone calls to make: he needed an update from Detective Carter and any help he could get from Samantha Shaw.

 

* * *

 

John had made it through surgery. Harold had long been back to the clinic, impeccable as nothing had happened, and had been frantically typing on his laptop when the surgeon had entered the waiting room and delivered the news.

He was glad he was sitting down because the wave of relief was almost overwhelming, making him incredibly dizzy.

He then listened carefully, not little distressed, to the doctor's report.

Predictably the metal fragment from the explosion had done just some minor muscular damage, but hadn't obviously helped in the blood loss context; then they had extracted a bullet from his neck, which had missed John's vocal cords by millimeters. But true to form, the worst damage had been from abdominal lesions.

The other bullet, in fact, had pierced the former soldier's stomach, causing severe internal bleeding. Then a broken rib, probably earned with a hard blow to the chest, had punctured John's right lung, which had consequentially collapsed.

They had managed to repair all damaged tissue, applied several internal stitches and connected the patient to a respirator.

John's clinic picture was far from reassuring but still, surviving such a complex operation was a small victory Harold could temporarily settle with.

Making sure his legs were actually able to bear his weight, Harold flipped the laptop close and followed the doctor to the ICU. John wasn't even close to being out of the woods so of course they needed him there, to monitor every single parameter and physical reaction. The first night was always crucial, they said.

And of course the sight that welcomed Harold was awfully disturbing. IVs of blood and saline he had seen before, so maybe it was the ventilator, or the heavy bandage around the neck, or maybe it was the impossibly pale complexion. John had dark circles under his eyes and looked… sick.

It sounded silly even inside his head, but Harold wasn't able to put it differently at the moment. His only friend was lying on a hospital bed, eyelids glued together into induced sleep, ashen, tubes up his nose and in and out his mouth, heavily bandaged on neck and abdomen.

He looked  _terribly_  sick.

"We have excluded any spinal damage." The doctor announced after a while. "The bullet pierced his neck but then settled downward, just under the collarbone."

And Harold felt another surge of relief, because the sight of a crippled John would have been simply too much to bear.

He exchanged formalities with the surgeon for a couple of minutes then was left alone.

Harold knew he couldn't linger there, he still had to bring Bear to Mr. Tao and retrieve some equipment from the Library, so he could work from the clinic. And he knew he couldn't dither either because adrenaline was keeping him upright and making possible to ignore how uncomfortable and sore he was.

He also needed something to eat, it was past 1 in the morning and he refused to pass out because he hadn't ingested anything in more than 12 hours. He was just too busy for that.

Yet he stood there for another minute, momentarily mesmerized by the steady hiss of the breathing machine.

"Is he gonna make it?"

Harold was startled but he was glad his body didn't betray his surprise. He was used to silent approaches, John had seemed to really enjoy startling him since the very first day they had started working together.

He noted absently though that somehow, along the months – years now, he had learnt to sense his presence all the same. He couldn't assert the same about Shaw though, maybe it was too soon, maybe they weren't connected.

He forced himself to avert his gaze from the bed in front of him and he turned around, facing the rogue asset.

"They still don't know". He replied quietly.

Harold didn't feel like elaborating and frankly he wasn't entirely sure if Shaw was interested in more details. Or maybe he wasn't sure if he had the strength to voice them.

She didn't move from the threshold and he glanced at the bed one last time before heading towards her. The former Marine followed him down the corridor, listening attentively to each information Harold was reciting.

He shared with her his recent talk with Detective Carter. The homicide detective had sent some scraps of the bomb to the crime lab, still waiting for the results. Joss couldn't find out much about the four armed men though. No IDs on the bodies, nor on the two survivors. One of them had died after being admitted to the hospital, the other one was in critical conditions.

"I'll pay him a visit all the same." Shaw declared knowingly.

And Harold was sure that if there was any information they could get from the man, the female operative would find a way to obtain it. He contained himself from inquiring on the modus operandi, because he was sure she wasn't going to kill him and at the moment he could make do on that.

Meanwhile, he kept explaining, Detective Fusco was having a chat with James Stevenson, now aware that his office and entire workplace had first blown up then housed a shooting.

"I expect you know where to find me, as soon as you have any news." He found himself dismissing her.

"I'll be in touch, and Finch? Next time I wouldn't mind adequate notice", she said with a pointed look.

"Ms. Shaw," Harold started calmly "I wish the cause of this recent predicament was mere lack of better judgment, on my part, or even John's. It'd feel much more acceptable than being part of the negative outcomes of Frequentist Probability."

And Harold could hear in his own voice every ounce of tiredness, and frustration, and bitterness he was currently feeling.

"Just telling that you can. Call me, I mean." Was Shaw's simple reply. And she looked meek, almost sympathetic, maybe for the first time since he had met her.

Harold found himself allowing the tiniest smile on his lips. "Thank you, Ms. Shaw, I'll keep that in mind."

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

They kept John in the ICU for two days. Heavily sedated, they put him off the ventilator later on the second day, switching to oxygen treatment.

It was dark outside and Harold was reading on one of the comfortable armchairs of the ICU room when Detective Carter called.

"Detective."

"Finch, any good news there?" She asked softly, a tinge of expectation.

"There have been some improvements." He declared cautiously, Harold didn't want to dispense false hopes to no one, himself included.

"I see. Do you think you can meet me and Fusco in Washington Square Park? We do have some good news."

Finch suspected it was just an excuse to make him leave the clinic, since she could just update him on the phone, but he accepted all the same, the prospect of fresh air was quite appealing after all.

"I'll be there in a half an hour."

John was breathing peacefully through the oxygen mask, they were also done with transfusions and his complexion looked a bit healthier, although still very pale.

There really wasn't much he could do there, so Harold left the clinic to meet with the detectives.

It was a nice evening, and he even decided to pick Bear up on the way. He missed the routine with the dog, it helped him keep time, allowing himself more breaks from the workaholic attitude he was prone to fall in.

At the moment he couldn't afford any distraction though, not during these first days, so crucial for the investigation.

So Mr. Tao was taking care of Bear most of the time, because in the end they got along just fine. Harold had even brought Bear's bed at Leon's place, equipped with John's suit and all. For once, the nosy accountant hadn't asked any questions about the unusual arrangement, although Harold had been ready to deal with any unwelcome enquiry with some Dutch command.

Anyhow, he now tried to enjoy his brief time with Bear, who looked ecstatic to be with him.

Harold finally spotted Detective Carter and Fusco, who were looking around curiously, both with hands in their pockets.

"Detectives." He greeted amiably, the weather was really pleasant and maybe Harold was looking forward to hearing some good news more than he had anticipated.

"Hey Finch." Carter greeted him with a small smile, scratching Bear behind his ears. Fusco nodded his greeting, petting the dog as well.

There was an awkward silence then, Harold knew Carter was a mother and he recognized the badly concealed look she was giving him and Fusco was almost fidgeting, looking anywhere but at him.

He couldn't stand the silence any longer, so Harold decided to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

"John's breathing on his own. They'll probably move him to a regular room tomorrow. But I reckon you had some good news on your part." He added without pausing.

The tension eased visibly and Fusco talked for the first time that evening.

"We have a strong lead on Stevenson's attackers. He's been receiving death letters and menaces for a while, from a religious group."

Harold recalled John's comment about brochures on radical religion views, having seen those in both Stevenson's flat and office.

"They don't quite like his research on artificial intelligences, because they think  _it's against God's will_." Carter quoted with an incredulous tone.

"I see." Harold nodded lightly. "It would be very helpful if I could have another look at that computer. The package exploded a few minutes after our incursion. We must have triggered the device in some way." He mused aloud.

"It's in Evidence..." Carter stated quietly. "But we can arrange something if you make it fast." She added hastily seeking confirmation in Fusco.

"Yeah, of course. Why not?" The male detective shrugged as it was the simplest thing in the world.

"Very good. Meanwhile I'm afraid we need to keep watch over Mr. Stevenson, until we don't catch the culprits."

Harold stated pensively, although sorry to keep asking both detectives for favors.

"That won't be a problem," Carter declared promptly. "Now that we've identified an actual threat, officers will be assigned to his protection, so Fusco and I can focus on the main investigation."

She sounded reassuring and Harold was once again touched by their helpfulness and affection. They, him and John, had really built a strong team along the way and Harold seemed to forget that sometimes. Old habits, he guessed.

"Thanks detectives, I really appreciate everything you're doing." He told them sincerely.

They looked almost embarrassed then and Harold continued without missing a beat. "I'll keep in touch. Have a nice evening and take some rest."

"Finch!" Carter called after him after a second, then she hesitated for a moment.

"Take care." She simply said eventually.

And he knew she meant of himself and John as well.

 

* * *

 

The following day found Harold a bit refreshed - he could rest in his personal room at the clinic, if he was too tired to reach the near safe house - and John in a regular, luminous room. He was stable enough not to need constant monitoring and his lungs had started doing their work again, although he could still need some oxygen now and again.

It was mid-afternoon and actually sunny. Light was filtering through the shutters, enveloping the room in a warm and cozy cocoon. Harold was typing quietly on his laptop, decrypting all data he had collected from Stevenson's computer early that morning. He had been as fast as promised and no one had noticed his little trip to Evidence, also thanks to the complicity of Detective Fusco.

And thanks to his brief visit Harold had been able to find out that he was the one responsible for the bomb ignition, because it had been programmed to explode at Stevenson's first attempt to login to his personal account.

Harold was now working on the prototype project and any possible connection to it, because religious radicals didn't quite explain the presence of four armed men, highly trained and ready to die. Shaw hadn't updated him yet and Harold was keeping himself busy doing what he was good at: delve into.

The groan was barely perceptible but made him stop dead in his tracks.

His gaze darted on the bed beside him and sure enough blue eyes were fluttering open.

"John." He almost chocked on the name. The unfocused gaze sluggishly moved towards him and Harold wasn't sure his friend was actually seeing him but he jerked upright, covering the brief distance to the bed.

The operative didn't seem coherent or capable of assessing his surroundings and Harold caught a flash of panic crossing his eyes.

"John, you're safe. I took care of everything."

He found himself repeating that sentence, mimicking his and Joss' words, not really capable to reassure his friend in any other way.

But John seemed to accept that, just like he had when he had been lying on that facility floor, bleeding to death. His eyes cleared for a moment, seemingly relaxed, then eyelids dropped down again.

Maybe he had managed to calm him with those simple words, or maybe John had merely dozed off again. Harold simply didn't care, his friend had woken up and everything felt a bit better already.

 

* * *

 

John woke up again late that night.

Harold had just wrapped things up around Stevenson's case, Fusco and Carter had arrested the engineer's partner and co-founder of "AI – The Next Generation", Michael Richards, after finding his fingerprints all over Stevenson's desk and computer and the scraps of the bomb.

But essentially they had been able to apprehend him because, after having found out that his plan with the bomb had been unsuccessful, he had tried to strangle his partner just as the police was taking him to a safe house.

Not a very smart move.

That's why he was probably looking at "guilty but insane", attempting murder the last straw on his collection of foolish acts.

Committed atheist, after a bad divorce Richards had been brainwashed by his old schoolmate Daniel Emerson, founder of the religious group "No future against God's will", into joining his movement and boycotting everything he had been working on for the last 20 years. And of course in his mind  _boycotting_  included getting rid of any AI prototypes and aforesaid prototypes creators.

Then Shaw had called, informing Harold that the only survivor of the shoot out at the facility had "assured" her that nobody was going to go after James Stevenson any time soon.

"We are saving people again." Was the whispered conclusion, hoarse but full of relief.

"It seems we are, yes. But didn't I start this conversation with a  _I'll give you a full report as long as you don't try to speak_?"

John had managed to stay conscious incredibly longer this time, well, more than the previous 30 seconds, and of course had immediately tried to speak despite Harold's prompt recommendation. Then of course had asked about Stevenson.

So Harold had thought to coax him into listening only with the promise to offer him a full report on the case, hoping the former agent would drift off again and rest. But trust John to use every ounce of willpower to hear out every single word and  _comment_  in the end.

At the reprimand Harold watched him finally close his eyes, a tiny smile soon replaced by a grimace as he shifted uncomfortably on the bed.

The grimace didn't stay long, but Harold could tell his partner was in a great deal of pain. He squeezed his shoulder lightly, trying to convey a small measure of comfort.

"A nurse will be here shortly, you'll be able to rest comfortably till tomorrow morning." He assured firmly.

John didn't give any sign to acknowledge the sentence but Harold felt his body relax a bit under his light touch.

_We are saving people again_.

The exact thought, in all its simplicity, had crossed his mind as well and Harold had felt relieved in a way he hadn't imagined possible, painfully aware of how much he needed to be successful in their mission. And he knew John needed it as much as Harold himself.

He remembered how difficult had been to learn about Cal Beecher's death, then face Joss' pain and confusion. Harold also recalled how painful had been for his friend to spend 24 hours with a dead man walking, do everything he could to help him with his revenge, only to watch him die in front of his eyes.

But James Stevenson was safe.

_We are saving people again_.

Still, Harold thought they had paid a high price to be back on track, a price too close to the one he couldn't afford to pay. But John's was gradually healing and he observed his friend relaxing completely as the nurse injected some pain medication in the IV attached to his arm.

So Harold relaxed as well, deciding he could allow himself a hot shower and a proper night's sleep at his safe house that night.

 

* * *

 

"Ms. Shaw suspects those men were from the Government. CIA or some secret unit like ISA." He explained to John the next day.

The ex-operative was more alert and Harold hadn't been able to avoid the gunmen topic any longer, even if he still was firmly refusing to let his friend talk too much.

"I'm pretty sure they were ISA." Was the raspy retort.

And Harold realized that everything had gone so slow - the investigation, the hypothesis, all the usual routine around their cases, because he hadn't been able to compare notes with his partner. Harold had been left alone, with the help of people only externally involved in their duo dynamics.

He was glad he could put it right then, even if the investigation was almost closed and all gunmen but one were uselessly dead.

Even if John couldn't actually do anything but voice up hypothesis.  _Very softly and not too often_ , he mentally added.

"Well, Mr. Reese, you could have  _talked_  sooner, instead of spending the past three days sleeping." He told his friend with a deadpan expression then, finding no little amusement at the dirty look he received.

However the former soldier looked tired and hurting again, and Harold was sure he would never utter a word about it. So he decided it was time for an ultimatum.

"Now John, since I've filled the umpteenth request of yours - and I'm telling you, I feel like I'm dealing with a four years old, it's a book or television. No more questions, reports or chats whatsoever."

And true to form, the taller man's mouth curved in something very close to a pout.

"Bear?" Was the hopeful whisper.

"Book or television, Mr. Reese, you even get to pick the channel or the title." And Harold emphasized his point holding the remote in one hand and a small pile of books in the other.

John looked seriously grumpy but pointed at the books, at last.

"Very well.  _White Fang_?" Harold suggested. He watched a tiny smile appear on his friend's lips, as he nodded lightly.

And John was already dozing off, but Harold settled back and started reading all the same, listening to the sound of his voice and his partner even breathing.

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

Harold jerked awake to the sound of light coughing and he realized he had dozed off as well, book still in hand. He actually wasn't surprised at all, since he had probably slept 9 hours in three days.

He straightened a bit on the soft material, more than little stiff. He had chosen those armchairs himself, but as comfortable as they could be, falling asleep on them unintentionally wasn't a good idea.

Putting aside his distress he realized that John was awake, looking at him apologetically for having woken him up. Harold watched him lift sluggishly his IV-free arm, probe his throat gingerly, then squeeze his eyes as another cough shook his body and he unconsciously braced his stitched abdomen.

"John, what's wrong?" His friend had sagged back in bed, facing away from him. He looked exhausted, eyes glassy and skin flushed.

Neither of those signs had been present just, he hastily glanced at his watch – three hours before.

Harold alerted immediately the medical staff, feeling John's forehead quite warm under his touch. His breathing was becoming labored and the former operative was growing restless.

Then, in a moment, nurse and doctor invaded the room and John was lying calmly again, eyelids dropping heavily, effectively sedated and with the oxygen mask back on his face.

Harold had a brief chat with the doctor, and then he was once again the only conscious person in the room.

He positioned himself at John's bedside, alert and vigilant, because apparently they couldn't enjoy some peacefulness just yet.

After a while though, Harold was tired of sitting down, and he decided to stretch his legs a bit, wandering around only to pause in front of the window.

He was the one who now felt restless and he found himself musing on the recent events once more.

Since the very beginning, Harold had never doubted John's skills in the field and, on the contrary, afraid the ex-agent would have gone too far, he had established some basic yet fundamental ground rules, which had led to an abrupt increase of kneecap wounds in the state of New York and specifically in NYC.

Harold had also established a sort of dress code, but just as he hadn't managed to persuade John into wearing a tie, he certainly couldn't have forced him to care, bond even, with their numbers.

But the ex-operative had seemed to care nonetheless, about every "good" number they'd come to help. Well, maybe most of them, a particular exception crossed Harold's mind, then again, he guessed Leon would make anyone need the patience of a saint.

Anyway, John had been particularly emphatic with Harold himself, of course. Sometimes subtle, sometimes firm, he had never tried to really hide that he cared. He had adjusted his pace from the beginning, made it look natural. Harold was sure it wasn't that natural though, he had seen John's resolute stride when they weren't together, long legs fast and stealthy. He hadn't missed also the occasional support of a hand, the ever-present chair whenever he felt stiff and tired, and an umbrella under the rain, Sencha green tea for breakfast or takeouts when he forgot to eat.

And of course he had found himself reciprocating the gestures, choosing expensive apartments as birthday presents, stitching wounds or hiring professionals who did, arranging rescue teams and, last but not least, taking care of John's dog.

He didn't actually mind of course, it had taken him less than a day to become very fond of Bear, but Harold never missed the chance to blackmail his friend on the matter, just for the sake of it. That was an unbeatable opportunity to pester John, just because John seemed to enjoy pestering Harold to no end.

So, in a way, he understood John's empathy towards him, towards their detectives, also, who could surely be considered more than mere assets by then. But John had recently been very empathic even with Root, carefully patching her up after Shaw had shot her.

And speaking of Shaw, John kept being considerate with her as well, despite her blunt declaration about sticking around only because of Bear, not to mention her less than nice description of the male operative, still speaking in canine metaphors.

The ex-operative though accepted her snide remarks placidly amused, the times he had bothered to reply much fewer than the ones he hadn't. Sometimes it still surprised Harold, the amount of confidence John was capable to display. The younger man didn't really feel the need to prove anything to anyone. Deeply aware of all his mistakes and chronic wounds, along with his skills and expertise, he had acknowledged all of them and carried on.

And Harold suspected that there laid his own weakness. Because even broken, drunk and lost, John had never tried to prove anything to him. Once he had agreed to work for him he had simply done that:  _work_.

Then of course he had spied on him, mocked him and thanked him more than once and also saved his life, but he had never tried to  _prove_  anything.

John had gained every inch of Harold's trust with his actions, his devotion and honesty, and sarcastic remark, innocent question, and light banter. And Harold had found himself surrendering without even realizing it.

He had approached John Reese with the intent to save his life and convince him to save the ones of many others, but the truth was that the ex-soldier had needed nothing more than a nudge to start doing his work in a way Harold couldn't have better wished.

Granted there was a lot of violence. Harold still didn't entirely grasp this particular aspect of John's personality. He knew he didn't mind using "extreme measures" or dealing with any kind of dangerous weapon, on the contrary Harold was pretty sure the ex-agent quite enjoyed it, yet he was capable of displaying an incredible amount of empathy at the same time.

Then again, Harold was egoistically glad, because it had been that same empathy which had brought John to fully understand Harold's recent actions during the whole adventure with Root and The Machine and back before, during the whole Ordos disaster.

He also suspected that after considering himself a monster for a long part of his life, denying himself every chance of redemption, and once essentially forced by Harold to take a second chance, John had finally allowed himself to feel again.

Feel happiness in the presence of a dog, a friend, a home, but also feel in the most painful way, because that's what empathy meant in their line of work. Harold was sure that John couldn't allow himself to feel it in any different way though; because he thought he deserved to bear the pain of the others.

And in the end, Harold couldn't do much about this particular aspect, not when he wasn't directly involved. But if his friend decided to shield him from an explosion, or take a couple of bullets to protect him, that was a different matter. Because John didn't deserve to bear his pain as well and because Harold wasn't another innocent number.

And if the former CIA wouldn't accept that it was Harold who had to sustain most of the weight of their mission, the best he could offer his partner was to bear it together, as equals, because he surely couldn't accept the other way around. And moreover, after the recent events, John had to be considered admin as much as Harold himself.

"What happened?"

Shaw sounded mildly surprised and again Harold was startled by her entrance.

"Throat infection." He replied quietly after a second, not bothering to turn around from the window. "It's a common complication of intubation, especially in the presence of neck injuries." Harold duly recited what the doctor had explained to him only an hour before.

And he knew Shaw had been there more often than she had actually shown herself, but it surprised him mildly that she was keeping track of John's conditions so closely.

Harold was aware of her temporary alliance with his partner during John's obstinate chase, and he had figured it had been because Root and she had some history. Then he had called her, out of other options, not even sure if she would have agreed to meet him.

And yet, against all odds, not only had Shaw accepted, but he had also received a reprimand because they hadn't included her from the beginning of the latest mission, implying that they could have probably avoided such a dramatic turn of events.

She reminded him of a wolf, Harold mused, wary of a campfire, yet tentatively trying to come closer. Then he also realized, with in inward smile, that maybe it was because of his recent readings.

But be that as it may, despite what she had told him a few months before, Harold was very far from being awfully trusting, so he kept being wary himself.

He finally faced her, who hadn't moved from the threshold. He was glad she hadn't crossed that boundary as well, the Library had been compromised months before but that room still felt strangely intimate.

Also he didn't like the idea of John in someone else's company besides his own, not when his friend was so vulnerable and even if that someone meant no harm. Hence he limped towards the door, then motioned to exit the room.

"Do you have any news, Ms. Shaw?" He eventually asked.

She nodded, and started reporting right away, with military precision. "Those armed men at the facility were ISA." And Harold already knew that.

"The man I interrogated was forcibly discharged only a few hours after our chat by a bunch of other agents. I don't think we'll see him again." She continued in practical tone.

Harold was listening carefully and he was afraid he already knew where that conversation was going.

"I watched them for a couple of days." Shaw started to pace up then, and he thought she was more like a caged lion now. "Looks like the Government isn't happy at all to have lost track of your Machine. So they've decided, very diplomatically, I might add, to ransack every single facility connected to any kind of research involving artificial intelligences or related subjects."

Harold had suspected right after contemplating the possibility of having been attacked by ISA that those same agents had been originally looking for the Machine, and now that they knew his face, that they had been looking for him as well.

So, thanks to Shaw, he could now be sure about it, just as he was sure that John should have realized it as well, while fighting those men, hence embarking his unacceptable crusade to protect him. But of course Harold's recent conclusion still stood: they were equals and _together_  was the only way he would accept to fight this war.

"It appears Mr. Stevenson did manage to attract some dangerous and diverse enemies just because of his studies." He mused aloud, back on topic.

"They have stolen Stevenson's computer from the Evidence Unit of NYPD." Shaw added then. "I can recuperate it, but you already took a look at it, didn't you?"

"That's correct." He replied absently. Learning about this brutally wild hunt by their rulers, involving innocent civilians to boot, felt quite disturbing, especially after Harold had found out that Stevenson's project was nothing compared to the complexity and effectiveness of his Machine.

"And I can assert that his prototype is far from being useful to the Government." He concluded grimly.

"Even so, the Government has been crossing too many lines lately." Was all Shaw said before leaving.

Harold couldn't agree more: it was the beginning of a new era, and now they needed to be as careful as ever.

 

* * *

 

Pain and a female voice. That was what John managed to register in the fog of his mind. But the voice didn't last long so he was left with pain only. Then Harold started talking, but he was very quiet and he couldn't really tell what he was saying. The familiar sound didn't last long either and he felt uneven footsteps move around the room.

John really wanted to try to stop his friend, but at the moment he couldn't find the strength to even open his eyes. His head and limbs felt like leaden, deeply sunken on pillow and mattress. And his throat felt swollen and sore and he vaguely recalled having problems breathing, some unidentified time prior.

He heard voices again, just outside his room and he was momentarily distracted. It was Shaw, the female voice. She sounded upset and Harold sounded shaken and John wished he were there, towering over both of them, actually hearing what they were saying  _and_  talking back.

He found himself fighting nausea instead. He shifted restlessly on the bed, in search of any measure of comfort, obtaining anything but more pain from pulling the stitches on his abdomen and aggravating his splitting headache.

He was hot and clammy and the mask on his face was doing nothing but adding discomfort. He blindly went for it, but when his fingers finally touched the plastic material a cool hand covered his own.

"Don't." Harold admonished him softly and John finally opened his eyes, trying to put his friend into focus. He hadn't even realized the voices had stopped, Shaw apparently gone.

"You need to keep the mask on, John." Harold elaborated after a moment, gently repositioning his arm along his torso.

He wasn't really in the shape to argue and he nodded lightly, eyelids halfway down.

"You developed an infection, but it's under control. Try to sleep some more and the antibiotics should do the rest." Harold reassured him.

And he found himself nodding again, but sleep, although appealing, didn't seem quite an option, not when he was in such distress.

But maybe Finch had learnt to read minds, or maybe he looked as miserable as he felt, because either way he had barely put the thought together when he felt a fresh clothe on his forehead.

So he closed his eyes, relishing in the feeling, having found the small measure of comfort he was desperately craving.

He opened his eyes again though, and he was probably pushing his luck, but he looked at Finch again and then eyed the book forgotten on the armchair.

His friend followed his gaze and instantly knew what he was asking.

"I think I may be spoiling you, Mr. Reese." Was the genius' comment, but John watched him pick up the book all the same, then settle back on the chair.

_White Fangs_  was a good book. And John knew it was a kids' reading but it was smooth and it kinda reminded him of Bear.

He started to concentrate on the story then, trying to detach himself from pain and discomfort, but unexpectedly Harold halted his reading after only a few lines, like he had just remembered something very important. John looked at him expectantly, all of sudden fully alert.

"Don't do that again, John. Please." Was the sudden request. He knitted his eyebrows together and Harold continued. "We're equal partners in this mission, now more than ever."

John wasn't sure he would ever feel equal though, but his friend looked clearly pained and the least he could do was trying to grant him what he was so earnestly asking.

He couldn't really talk at the present so he found himself nodding his agreement for the third time.

Harold regarded him for a long moment, eyes intense and firm. Then, apparently satisfied, he resumed his reading.

After a while though, John couldn't focus on the words anymore, and he let himself drift off at the simple sound of his friend familiar voice.

_TBC_


	7. Epilogue

He had taken a little walk around the desert wing, against doctor's orders - of course, taking advantage of Finch's first long absence in days.

He was sorer and more fatigued than he'd like to admit, then again, broken ribs were always a bitch and the combo with various holes and massive blood loss didn't certainly help. Then add up the classic evergreen infection to the mix, and your nightmarish attempt to recover is complete.

John almost sighed; he was feeling much better than 2 weeks before, so he guessed he could settle for that, for now. All in all, he wasn't bandaged like a mummy anymore, he was wearing regular, comfortable clothes, and hadn't needed the aid of the oxygen masks in days. After all he had been through he shouldn't really complain.

Resigned, he had just sat down on the edge of bed, ribs cradled protectively with his arm, needing a moment to catch his breath before maneuvering his full body back on it. John wasn't facing the door but he sensed it all the same.

"Bear is not here." He whispered hoarsely.

His neck wound was healing nicely but he still didn't feel too comfortable while speaking. He cleared his throat with a slight grimace before continuing. "He's just gotten back to the Library after a walk in the park."

Shaw crossed the threshold then, covering the distance between them and finally facing him.

"I know." She looked unconcerned, as usual, uninterested, maybe bored. John stayed where he was, he hated talking to people while he was lying down and he assumed he was going to have to postpone his nap.

"Thanks, then," He offered sincerely after a brief pause. And that elicited some sort of reaction because she looked at him quizzically. "For keeping an eye on them while I'm stuck here." John elaborated with a meaningful glance.

He had never restrained himself from showing gratitude, nor found it something to be ashamed of, like some particularly proud people did. There had been a long period in his life when he had almost forgotten the meaning of such feeling, because, frankly, he had nobody to thank and, at the same time, nobody never thanked him, no matter how hard he worked, no matter how many lives he was saving.

Then the "numbers" had come, reminding him that gratitude still existed. A word, a look, sometimes even a hug. And while each manifestation still caused him no little embarrassment, it had awakened his long forgotten habit. That's why John never missed the chance to thank Harold or whoever, willingly or not, did something for him, like Shaw in this case.

She didn't reply though, apparently equally embarrassed at being the object of gratitude as he usually was. Instead, Shaw started wandering around the room, which was bigger than those John used to rent before receiving his birthday present, he absently noted.

The female operative remained silent for a while and John had never been one for small talk, but apparently she needed a little nudge.

"So, now that we've established you're not looking for Bear, or Finch: to what do _I_  owe the pleasure?" He knew she had been there before, more than once even, but each time John had been sedated or unconscious, and he suspected it hadn't been a coincidence.

"Do you know Bear is sleeping on one of your suits?" She still wasn't looking at him; now glancing through the window, as to make sure the location was safe. Obviously she hadn't grasped yet Finch's level of paranoia. And speaking of Finch…

"Harold should really stop doing that." John answered instead, almost embarrassed, not sure if he felt more amused or miserable about Bear's current accommodation.

"Then maybe you should stop intercepting bullets trajectories. Shouldn't you?" She shot back without missing a beat.

Shaw didn't know that the first time Harold had borrowed one of his suits to pacify Bear had been because he was in prison, but he didn't bother to correct her, because, to tell the truth, the point was just the same.

"Oh, I try, but succeeding is a different matter." He told her after a moment with a small grin.

"Well, try harder." She countered back. "The dog seems inexplicably attached to you and I don't like seeing him so upset."

And John loved that everyone loved Bear, even very eccentric people and sociopaths. He didn't quite understand Shaw's uncharacteristic display of consideration though, and he would have gladly avoided that situation himself,  _of course_ , but apparently she needed a clarification.

"I don't like it either," he admitted then "but Bear would have been much more inconsolable if Finch hadn't come home at all."

And John's expression darkened at the simple contemplation of not having been able to protect Harold from those ISA agents.

"I wouldn't mind having him here," he added more lightly after a second, because he had been, in the end, Finch was safe. "But it seems that not even the owner of the clinic is allowed to such exceptions."

"Well, maybe because the friend of the owner just recovered from an infection, among others things?"

Again, John didn't understand what all the fuss was about. He had already received that lecture, from Harold of course, and honestly he had even expected it because, although he'd take some bullets for him again without a second thought, they were friends and it was natural to care, and worry.

Also, he suspected Finch particularly enjoyed to lecture him, but that was another matter.

But with Shaw was different, he certainly couldn't consider her a friend, for instance. Yet there was something edgy in her voice, her snide remarks weren't light as usual and she sounded almost… bitter.

"Your point, Shaw?" He found himself enquiring while rubbing his forehead. He really wasn't up for beating around the bush, John was tired and aching, the stitches were painfully pulling his skin and he was starting to feel nauseous and lightheaded for staying up for too long.

"My point is that I don't like how things are degenerating, up there. The Government used to be more subtle than that, and sending a highly trained ISA squad - in plain daylight -  _over suppositions_ , is just war."

So that was it, and of course she was right, but it was no news for him, or Harold, for that matter. They had talked about consequences and strategies only a few days before, and even then, they had already been aware of their position just after finding out that the Machine "had escaped".

"Finch knew,  _I_  knew, the outcome of openly challenge them." He explained calmly. "We started a war the moment we left that empty room in the federal site. I seem to recall you chose a side yourself?"

He then looked at her pointedly, expecting a clear answer, because again, it really was war they were talking about and there wasn't time for games.

"So what's the plan, John?" She asked a bit defiantly after a moment.

He smiled a little then, that "answer" was clear enough and it just needed to be said out loud.

"The plan,  _Sam_ , is to fight it as best as we can." He explained almost patronizing, earning a dirty look from the female operative. "And take care of the irrelevants along the way, " he added after a second. "Good guys, remember?"

Shaw looked almost disgusted by the idea. "I've never been good in my life." She declared listlessly.

John should really admit that much, she was amusing sometimes. He almost chuckled, immediately regretting the involuntary movement, which had sent a sharp twinge through his entire neck.

"Oh, you'll get used to it."

And he couldn't ignore the irony of that particular sentence coming from no one but John Reese, because only a few years before he wouldn't have conceived any scenario that could have made him say such a thing.

Shaw shook her head lightly, seemingly incredulously amused at what she was agreeing to. "See you around, John."

She left the room after that, disappearing as stealthily as she had arrived.

And John, particularly pleased by the result of that conversation, finally allowed himself to lie down again and take a well-deserved nap.

 

* * *

 

His phone started vibrating on the nightstand beside the hospital bed, waking him from his light slumber. Still aching and nauseous, he didn't feel rested at all, but John was glad Harold was calling.

"Finch," was the simple answer. Even his throat was hurting again and he knew he shouldn't have pushed it so much, during his chat with Shaw.

"Mr. Reese, I've been told you've behaved uncharacteristically well today."

John couldn't tell if Harold was being sarcastic or not,  _had Shaw told him he had been out of bed, only a few hours before?!_  He decided to play along either way.

"What do you mean  _uncharacteristically_? I'm offended, Finch." He couldn't control a light cough then, and John winced inwardly, preparing himself for the lecture that would surely ensue.

Or not.

"Of course you are, John." His friend dismissed the joke with his usual practical tone. "Anyway, I've decided to bring you a surprise, I'll be there shortly." Trust Harold to keep the conversation at minimum.

He grabbed the remote and reclined the bed till he was half sitting, preparing himself for the visit. And John couldn't help but notice the gap between the ex-marine and his friend, even in little gestures like leave his vocal cords heal undisturbed.

Moreover, Harold had really sounded mildly serious, so he hopefully wondered if the aforementioned surprise would involve coffee.

John was desperately craving a hot cup of the black liquid; he had spent more than a week on IV solutions first, then on tasteless fluids. Since he couldn't eat solid food yet because of his mended stomach, the least that Finch could do was bringing him a liquid he very much liked.

His reasoning did sound perfectly logic.

And he didn't have to wait long because after ten minutes he could hear Harold's uneven steps on the clinic corridor.

"Where's the coffee?" He asked expectantly as his friend crossed the door. However, Harold regarded him sternly, crushing every hope with one of his deadpan retorts.

"Never said the surprise involved coffee, Mr. Reese, you know you're not allowed to drink that."

John felt pretty disappointed then, after a couple of seconds though he heard the familiar sound of paws on tile floor and he smiled in anticipation.

"I thought dog visits weren't allowed either." He told Finch with a grin as Bear entered the room, tail waggling madly.

"Apparently you've fully recovered from that nasty infection and they can tolerate an exception. He's not staying on your bed though." His friend added hastily.

John was already petting his dog, tiredness and aches forgotten entirely. "Fair enough." He agreed with a broaden smile.

Bear was incredibly gentle. He settled placidly on the armchair at John's bedside, the one usually occupied by Harold and a book, or a laptop.

Still half sitting, John stretched his arm towards his dog, scratching his ears and muzzle affectionately. Then addressed his friend, who was taking his overcoat off, ready to stay a while.

"Thanks, Finch. I do feel pretty spoiled," he told Harold recalling his friend's words, mischievous but genuine at the same time.

His partner then feigned an exasperated look, but refrained himself from admonishing John's impishness once again. And he knew it was Harold's way to accept his gratitude, so John couldn't help but relish the newfound routine.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence John was dozing off again, while stroking Bear's soft fur.

"Any news on the Government?" he mumbled, forcing himself awake just for a little longer. Maybe the visit wasn't just about Bear, maybe they needed to discuss serious matters as well.

Overthrown, Harold had settled on the other armchair, opposite to the bed. He was smiling softly, enjoying the scene in front of him.

"Rest now, John, we can think about war tomorrow."

And John found himself reciprocating the smile then, because everyone he cared about was safe, and Finch and Bear were there with him.

So yes, he agreed, they could.

****

**_THE END_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


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